Glass When Broken
by CrackinAndProudOfIt
Summary: ...becomes many little pieces. Silm drabbles, vignettes, oneshots, and everything in between from Back to Middle-earth Month 2012.
1. Of My Dreams

**Bingo #: B9  
Prompt: title and/or lines from a favourite non-Tolkien poem**

****_"...but I, being poor, have only dreams.  
I have spread my dreams under your feet;  
tread softly, for you tread on my dreams."_

_**-Yeats, "He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven"**___

You dance with him. It used to be me, your partner, your companion, the harmony to the flawless melody that your very presence creates of its own accord- a harmony hardly comparable to its grace, but an integral part of it.

There were only you and I, the princess and the bard, a pair of performers known throughout the Hidden Kingdom for our skill, me and you, us. And I dreamed; oh, how I dreamed!

I love you, and I will never cease to do so, should the stars fall, should these woods be ruined, should you wed this mortal and have by him a thousand children bearing your radiant eyes in his coarse face, should the grief of my unrequited passion overwhelm me at last and I pass from this life. Even in the keeping of Námo I will illuminate his dreary halls with songs that declare your beautiful name.

But you do not see it, that here, all along, in him you called brother and friend, was the love you now so apparently seek in this lowly /adan/. With each step in the dance you teach him, you unknowingly crush my dreams beneath your fair feet. With each note you sing to him, you unwittingly curse my name and all we might have had together- /might/ have.

Oh, Lúthien, I hope, I pray, I dream that you might be mine.


	2. Everything Goes Black

**Bingo #: B9  
Prompt: concussion  
**  
What is this shimmering border the world has adopted? What is this blackness slowly encroaching upon my line of sight? This is happening so quickly. But a few moments ago, I was strong, without ailment, making my precarious way down the face of the cliff behind Turambar.

And the rock fell. The aching in my jarred skull has only just begun. As the darkness grows, my fingers become numb even as they grip the rock. I fall.

What is this crushing sensation given by the rapid current as it drags me under?


	3. Cursed Creations

**Bingo#: B1**

**Prompt: Aulë- cursed creations**

The things of craft are the things of worth, which answers the question, ere it can even be asked, of why these very items seem to be the focal points of every conflict in the Hither Lands. That I must conclude, though it grieves me, for as the greatest craftman I am left ultimately at fault for these cursed creations.

It is amazing, the power of a beautiful thing. Who would have thought myriad Eldar would lose their lives at the bloody hands of their kin on the account of simple jewels? Who would have thought these same people of the Noldor would become so obsessed with power, with whatever positive intentions, to listen to the instruction of a stranger, a stranger whom they refused to have the discernment to see would only betray them?

I never wished that my domain would become one of war and slaying, but it has. I never wished that the very items whose making I taught would completely consume my followers, but they have.


	4. A Treacherous Queen

**Bingo #: O70  
Prompts: Melian- meeting survivors of Doriath after her flight to Valinor; what scares you?**

****I should have known they would come here.

_What better place for the twice-plundered, twice-wounded, twice-scarred, to fly?_

__Had my clairvoyance been clearer, if I were less inwardly focused on my own grief, I would have foreseen this.

_The plunder of the Hidden Kingdom was anticipated by me alone._

__Even had I been warned of their arrival here, though, I could not have expected this treatment.

_I knew what the Fëanorians would inflict upon Doriath._

__My own ladies-in-waiting hold me in contempt, saying that my presence would have saved their home from ruin.

_The Girdle was the only thing that could have kept the invaders at bay._

__There was nothing left to tie me to those woods, that land, these people, after Thingol's death.

_They watched their own husbands die at the bloodstained hands of Kinslayers._

__Left behind by a man who gave his life for a simple Jewel, I escaped to my once-loved paradise.

_They were abandoned by a treacherous queen._


	5. The Breaker

**Bingo #s: O67, O68**

**Prompts: Aegnor/ Andreth; stomach ache**

Some days were better than others- they just were. How long could one live with this regret gnawing away at the _fëa_? A love lost beyond finding again in this world, two broken hearts, shattered beyond salvaging while Arda lasted- and the breaker himself, the careless misplacer, was left to rue his miserable actions- for the rest of time.

Some days he tried to forget: but he simply could not. To push away even the fair memories of his brief days with her seemed blasphemy and spite to the _adaneth _he would always love. It was almost easier to remember than to forget- or die trying to- for the further guilt inevitably succeeding his failed attempts did nothing to ease his pain.

Today was one of the bad days, for to remember would be a distraction. As he stood upon the citadel's battlements, the ache for her could be tangibly felt in the pit of his stomach. He needed to escape, go somewhere whose lulls between attacks would leave no time such as this for empty wishing and its cruel offspring: anguish.

Looking far into the North, his keen eyes lighted upon the flames pouring forth from Angband. "Come, Angaráto," he said to his brother, "let us go to the front lines."


	6. Chasing Fire

**Bingo #: O65**

**Prompt: Tilion- the phrase "mooning over someone"**

The inaccessible flame.

He, doomed eternally to watch and wait, to look but never touch, spends his days in awe of her presence, desiring to be near to her, dreaming of the day when he might, just might, be so. His nights he spends in her tireless pursuit, wanting only his journey across the firmament to culminate with her in his arms.

He is helpless, hopeless, head-over-heels, wholly heliocentric, hot on the hunt for his heart's flame-hued heroine. Smitten, entirely and eternally, by the maiden whose beauty's image is seen only in his constant fantasies: his opposite, his completion; his beloved, his elusive prey; the flame that kindles his dreams.


	7. On the Storm's Wings

**Bingo #: N33 **

**Prompts: Eärendil/ Elwing; gale; "you would even say it glows"**

He spotted it simply because it was shining; there was no way to miss that glowing orb descending nearer and nearer to Vingilot's deck, steady amid the rapid strikes of lightning that cleft the sky in what was now a veritable tempest. The wind blew with a fury, tossing the diminutive silver ship about like a leaf in the autumn and forcing the torrents of rain into Eärendil's face.

He brushed his golden hair away from the skin it was loosely plastered to and allowed himself to be distracted from the task of steering the ship, completely mesmerized by this floating light. As it drew closer, he could descry its form as that of some large gull. It flapped its wings vigourously, trying only to stay aloft until it could land softly on the deck. It failed, however, overcome by the squall's aggression and fell, hitting the birch-wood with a _thump_ that would go down in history.


	8. A Banquet

**Bingo #s: N43; I22**

**Prompts: spiders, flies, and maggots; lavender**

**A/N: Warning- Not for the squeamish!**

Glorfindel knew disgusting. Glorfindel knew horror. For the Valar's sake, he had crossed the Grinding Ice, meaning he had watched friends and kin drown in icy water, be buried alive beneath avalanches of ice. He had seen fingers and toes freeze, blacken, and fall- or be broken- off; he had trodden upon the bloody footprints of those ahead of him, the only traces of the living's agony to be left upon the ice.

But nothing could compare to the appalling sight that met him right here, right now, in Nan Dungortheb. It was a _nís_'s corpse, which he could only wish he had not seen many times before; he had never, however, seen a _nís_'s corpse like this: completely swallowed up by a sea of feasting maggots. The creatures covered the _hröa _so completely that all to be looked upon of the body was the golden hair and small patch of lavender cloth revealing that this was not Lady Aredhel.

The insects roiled and riled- if it had not been for their constant motion, Glorfindel woud have thought a sack of rice had been dumped upon her- and flies buzzed above the grotesque scene, the parents of such nauseating offspring.

Glorfindel wondered if she had been slain by a spider, or perhaps she had starved or thirsted to death. One thing, however, was clear: If Aredhel had entered this valley, she simply could not have made it out alive.


	9. The Sword

**Bingo #: B15**

**Prompts: ice crystal; favourite quote from a historical figure**

_"For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world, and the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms." -Paul the apostle, Ephesians 6:12_

The sword will not save him. Though it glimmers in the morning sun like a crystal of ice, though it is fair and radiant, sparkling so brightly as to blind, though it has spilled the dark blood of countless Orcs, Ringil will draw the king no nearer to victory.

For Morgoth is greater. Morgoth- Fingolfin seeks the root of the problem after suffering so much at the hands of its demons and monsters; his aim is to do justice upon the master for the thralls' execution of orders- and rightly so. He will use the sword, he thinks, for in his mind the weapon is a threat even to the adamant tower that is the Dark Lord in battle's full array.

As Morgoth emerges, the Noldo strangely feels no fear: such is his confidence- or his delusion. In his rage, his pride, his feyness, the sword seems invincible. That needle of ice shall puncture the flesh of his opponent.

And it does, even as the weight of mountains crushes him and his final breath marks his departure from this life.


	10. Frozen

**Bingo #: G50**

**Prompts: hypothermia; silent as the grave**

He was trembling as he stood upon the hillside casting his gaze- that of the last Noldo to set foot on Middle-earth- back out over Helcaraxë, beholding the frozen hell for the final time. From his elevates viewpoint, his eyes were met with the sight of the Ice, devoid of all life, but littered with the innumerable bodies of Eldar who had perished in that fateful crossing. The treacherous ice itself, in a vision that would have perhaps been beautiful to other eyes, glimmered in the light of this silver orb now traversing the heavens.

All was eerily quiet, the Noldor struck dumb in awe of the light and lifeless Helcaraxë for once stilled in its ceaseless grinding. The only sound was that of a chill gust of wind breaking upon the rocky coast; it stung his skin, chilling further his already frigid face.

He was so cold. The harrowing image of those countless lives, claimed by that very element and that same hypothermia now seizing his own body, he knew would be forever impressed upon his mind. Finally, the ice groaned, appearing to be no different after the Noldor's journey. Turning his back upon it forever, Findaráto wished the same could be said of him.


	11. Making My Move

**Bingo #: G51**

**Prompts: Morgoth- the end of the world; let's take the road before us**

They say it's all going to come to an end. The moment I emerge, They say it will all be over, and They're right. For once- I'll declare it from the firmament- _They are right_.

The moment that these besetting doors at last burst, break, snap, are thrust, from their adamant iron hinges will be the culmination of Arda as They know it.

Captured now, surrounded; but the very darkness into which They cast me will only serve to aid me in the war I will wage against the diminished Powers. Do they not recall that I am its master?

While They have exerted their strength in exchange for the dominion of Arda, weakening themselves as they poured their power out into the earth itself, I have only laughed. I know that mistake; I've made it. But over the eternal Ages, while They have degenerated, my own power has only been replenished, slowly building until the Void is no longer such.

The emptiness is filled with my eminence, looming over the world, and finally the unguarded gates crack. For a split second, I hold back- but there's really no need: I've been planning this reprise of my reign since the moment they first imprisoned me. And I make my move, advancing through the open doors before me, world ahead.


	12. The Tapestry

**Bingo #: N32**

**Prompts: Vairë- tapestries woven by children's hands; Alqualondë**

She remembers its crafting; she wove its weaving herself, a specific activity that never failed to amuse some childish portion of the Valië's soul. She can recall forming with her own threads the smaller image of the yarns' entwining by the hands of Olwë's Telerin granddaughters. Practice of sorts it had been for the future date when white sails would be shaped upon their looms.

The tapestry, though not particularly beautiful, with an orange patch on the woven ship's white hull, and three goldenrod strands spontaneously placed in the woolen cobalt sea, has hung on proud display in the palace's antechamber for nearly ten years. She knows the things the decoration has seen, and, quite honestly, it has been quite a nuisance to add its intricacies to the background of every event in Olwë's halls depicted on her own vast webs.

But never again- for it has fallen, details no longer distinct. All is red on the palace's floor, and the tapestry lies steeped in the spilled blood of the maidens that crafted it.


	13. His Darkness

**Bingo #: N39**

**Prompts: silver; "if you really hold me tight"**

The heedless beams of moonlight pour down onto the city, bouncing off of Gondolin's thick walls, playing in its fountains to create a dazzling display of silver mist in the night. The argent rays illuminate the Hidden Kingdom's every shadow, finding their way into every niche of darkness but that within his heart.

This is not the first night that thoughts of her have left him sleepless, pacing the Square of the King with none but Tilion on high and the ceaseless flowing of the grand fountain for company. On nights like these, the emptiness within him is felt most poignantly, as all the world lies still and dead, leaving him to feel himself the only wretched living soul to burden its face. All that would change, though, he knows, if she only loved him.

The void in his breast where darkness and corruption had taken up residence would, he doubts not, be wholly filled if only he could take her in his arms. He swears, by the cold stars and She that made them, by Tilion, his fellow pursuer of a radiant maiden worth living and dying for, that should he ever hold her, he will never let go.


	14. These Healing Hands

**Bingo #: B6**

**Prompts: first line of Crane's The Red Badge of Courage; Estë- warrior doubling as healer _(Yeah, yeah, I thought it was far-fetched, too, but here goes!)_**

The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the plain, resting. The forces of the Valar had arrived at last to free oppressed Beleriand from Morgoth's tyranny. Who stood on the front lines- invisible to all save the most discerning eyes- but Estë, clad in the battle garb of the people of Manwë?

There was a good reason for her secrecy: no one would expect to see the gentle Valië in the van of the Powers' troops. She was a healer, they thought- and true their notion was- but that she was a healer of passion, of fervency, of fury, none dared suspect. Healing hands may take up a sword when enraged by long injury to their domain.

Estë knew far too well that war is at times the sole remedy for continued affliction, that mending can only appear after the marrer is overthrown. Drawing her weapon, Estë aimed to ensure that the Bauglir would mar no longer.


	15. A Star's Revenge

**Bingo #: B13**

**Prompt: "And they looked up and saw a star"**

There had always been a reason that Angband lacked windows. Light was not allowed to penetrate the fortress' darkling walls; it burned his skin; it tormented his servants; and, worse, it pleased his thralls. His eyes had long ago become accustomed to the shadows, his flesh in ages past lost all its hue. He despised the light; he hid from the light; he needed it not.

But a chink had formed in that adamant structure, created by the ceaseless hammering and delving above the throne room. No thicker around than a child's wrist it was, but he loathed its presence, immense though the chamber was in comparison, for this night from it poured a single ray of light that illuminated a space on the stone floor of just its width.

Cursing its radiance, he made his way over to the beam; squinting, he lifted its eyes to investigate its source. The gap was broad enough so that one thing through it could be seen: A new star haunted the firmament, casting its piercing light even into the depths of its one-time prison. Captive no longer, the Silmaril taunted him from on high.


	16. Gone

**Bingo #: N39**

**Prompt: Varda- Black Hole**

_Going._

She sensed it the moment it began to fall through, imploding slowly but surely, as if the darkness consuming it were a steady deluge of brackish water. In all her star-crafting, all her wisdom, all her clairvoyance, she had never fathomed she would watch one of her creations die.

_Going. _

The shafts of light remaining grow fewer and fewer as the voracious darkness propagates. The white beams seem to shoot out, shining more clearly than ever before ere being eternally extinguishment. One last ray lingers, illuminating her hand as it rests upon the doorpost of Ilmarin. Its light catches upon a single tear escaping her eye; the droplet glistens for a moment in the starlight, then falls to the snow-covered ground in darkness.

_Gone. _


	17. Of Missing You

**Bingo #: I18**

**Prompt: first line of Shakespeare's _Macbeth_**

When shall we meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? I have never done anything more difficult than watch you walk away. Here I sit, mourning, watching, waiting, remembering. I wish I could direct my thoughts to any other path but the repeated image of your turning your back on me, Ingalaurë. Trapped in this darkness, the only illumination of which is the faint stars above, I miss you, my beloved one, and the children that also have been stolen from me. I cannot stop the crushing wave of last memories that washes over me once more.

_"Are you not coming, Eärwen?" you said, picking up yet more of our treasures and placing them in the doubtlessly heavy bag you clearly meant to take with you on your long journey. You looked at me so expectantly, as if you really thought I was about to pick up my whole life, all I have ever known, to follow you and your half-mad half-brother on some dubious venture into the perilous lands outside Aman._

_Fëanáro no longer seemed to think Aman safe, blissful, tranquil, as it once was, and perhaps he was right in that. But to assume that the wide, dangerous outside world would be a better home? Preposterous!_

_As preposterous as any notion you might have had, Ingalaurë, that I would abandon my home, my people the Teleri, yea, even my Valar, for any love or money. So I told you just that._

_You did not argue with me, nor try to force me to accompany you. You merely tried gentle persuasion, flashing to no avail that disarming smile of yours. You said you would not be able to live without me. "Stay here," I replied, almost harshly, "and keep your life."_

_You told me you could not, repeating Fëanáro's whims and ravings like a trained parrot. Your words were empty and meaningless; we both knew it. You had only just been convinced, and barely, by our children._

_Our children: you spoke of them. "Would you abandon them, my beloved?" you asked._

_"Would they, would _you _abandon _me_?" I responded. In that instant, you came closer than you ever have and ever shall, should we by some providence of Ilúvatar meet once more, to persuading me of anything. The thought of permanent separation from not only you, Ingalaurë, but from Findaráto, from Artaher, from Aikanáro and Angaráto, and from my dear Artanis, was, and yet remains, one unbearable._

_"Not out of any desire to," you asserted in that quiet tone of yours- quiet, yet somehow more powerful than any louder one that you possess. "I beg you again, Eärwen, please come away with us! The road will be a dark one and a hard, this I know, but would you not rather take it and dare its perils alongside us than dwell here forever in sanctuary, but completely alone? Beloved, I do not want to leave you."_

_Paying no heed to your previous words, I replied to your last statement only. "Then do not," I said, "and we will both be the happier for it." You seemed to consider this for a moment- genuinely- and I could see in your beautiful sapphire eyes that you were truly torn. You may have stayed yet, Ingalaurë, had it not been for the knock at the door._

_Our speech was broken by the rapping, and when you answered it, there stood Nolofinwë, with a blue lamp in hand. Urgency was in his voice and faces as he asked you if you were prepared to depart. He cast an unsure glance of acknowledgement in my direction, and then you did as well. Ingalaurë, I can read you like a book, and the visit of your brother clearly shoved all indecision from your mind; the look you gave me offered one last chance to change my own. _

_I merely shook my head, and then, on a sudden impulse reached out to kiss and embrace you one final time, for the rest of eternity. We did, and never in caressing you have I experienced such pain. "Namárië, beloved," you said. _

_I remained silent, swallowing hard to hold back the shameful tears until you were gone._

I let them fall now, Ingalaurë, weeping into the pillow with the haunting hope in the back of my mind that it will suffocate me, thus ending my misery. Ai, Ingalaurë, Ingalaurë! When shall me meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain?


	18. Lost Cries

**Bingo #: I22**

**Prompt: "heedless of the wind and weather"**

The snow had just began to fall; it was far from the first of what had been a long season, and already it was coming down in great, swift flakes that clung tightly to the frozen ground. The wind had been blowing before the blizzard began, so strong to move even the faraway clouds that painted the grey midwinter sky. Now, however, it seemed far colder as it sent the snowflakes southwest from their Origin in great gusts: right into the face of the man.

His head was dark, and his downcast eyes a piercing grey. Carefully they examined the ground before him, as if searching ever for some trace or trail that seemed always to elude him. He walked swiftly, though, for his sort of tracker, that appeared so intent on prying information from the oblivious earth concerning those who had previously tread upon it. His stride was that of one summoned; or one knowing he was in a race, and losing; or expected at a certain hour, and late.

So absorbed seemed he in his task that the snow and wind bothered him not at all- or perhaps it was that he simply failed to notice them. His exposed visage was flushed from prolonged contact with the frigid air, as were the once-ivory fingertips peeping out from tattered gloves. He might have procured frostbite, hypothermia, or even snow-blindness itself but his focused gaze made it clear that nothing would deter him from his quest.

One might have thought the increasingly-wintry landscape completely silent, but for the rushing of the gale and the occasional crack of an unheeded twig beneath the man's feet, but he himself heard otherwise. From every crag in every rocky hill, in every dead leaf on every dead tree's chafing mournfully against its neighbours, in the very whistling of the wind itself, he heard her cries yet again. In Dor-lómin, they had ceased to be audible, but now that it was Finduilas he sought for, they had become clear yet again- in all their maddening pain and anguish.

_"Mormegil, Mormegil!"_

He could hear her shrieking, louder and louder in this snowstorm until his ears were pounding from the sound and he thought that should her volume increase one more decibel, his head would simply explode- but it did.

He sank to his knees on the damp, now-white ground, taking his head in his hands and crying out for mercy. "Finduilas, Finduilas, I hear you! Oh, Finduilas, be patient: I am coming for you!" he screamed as tears began to slide down his cheeks- only to freeze to his skin halfway down them. He blinked the droplets back as best he could, and cringed as he pulled the ice from his flesh.

He yelled out once again- from agony both mental and physical- and bowed his head to his knees in a vain attempt at softening the unending shrieks. They grew only louder, though, and echoed within his mind. He looked up and out in hope of finding repsite from his psychic turmoil by for once heeding his surroundings, and rose to his feet to continue the grueling trek.

No comfort was there to be found, though, for now not only was her voice to be heard but her face to be seen. The design of every snowflake blown near his eyes was of her features; yellowed reeds were reminiscent of her golden hair; even the snow-covered earth could be found to resemble the pallid hue her skin had taken in her time of greatest mental struggle. He looked to the sky at last; surely she would not follow his gaze to the firmament!

Yet there she was, ashen clouds forming the shape of her fair face. Suddenly, her mouth curled upwards into an unbecoming leer. The last echoes of her shouts for him were replaced by the _elleth_'s light, clear laughter, unceasing as the snow.


	19. A Grey Day in Valinor

**Bingo #s: G51, B1**

**Prompts: borrow another author's OC; wraiths, wights, and ghosts**

**Silmalir belongs to the amazing Duilin! :D**

It doesn't rain much in Valinor, but when it does, it pours, as the saying runs. Today it rains /and/ pours, but the little servant girl whose long, black hair clings wet and tangled to her skin, whose wilted flowers are clutched tightly in hand, is sheltered from the monsoon by the thick leaves of the grove of trees surrounding the grave.

She's weeping, and one looking upon her would finally be able to tell it now that she's been under the trees long enough to dry all but her hair. She comes here when she can, but never often enough to tell her mother everything on her heart or recount all that has passed since her last visit.

"Amme," she cries, and her little voice cracks and squeaks as she says the word, "can you hear me at all? What should I do? I wish- I wish you were still here, and you and Atar and I could all be together. We'd be happy again!"

Her voice breaks, and she is overcome with emotion, unable to form words for several minutes heavy, horrible sobs wrack her small frame. Recovering herself, she continues feebly, "I love you; I miss you. Please talk to me, Amme! Don't you love me?"

Suddenly, her breath catches in her throat, for forming out of thin air, it seems, is the figure of a beautiful woman. Her consistency is that of shreds of mist or wisps of smoke, but she is yet recognizeable. The girl gasps. "Amme!"

The figure moves closer to her and extends one translucent arm as if to caress her daughter's face, but no contact can be felt on the girl's part.

And then a voice can be heard, soft, barely audible above the pounding rain outside the glade, but clearly her mother's. Four words only are spoken before the image dissipates, leaving the girl alone once again, but they are the four most wonderful words the girl can hear.

"I love you, Silmalir."


	20. Rest

**Bingo #: B15**

**Prompts: gapfiller to another author's fanwork; Námo- fear of the dead/ghost**

_**A/N: Credit to AzureSkye23, on account of this oneshot being based off of her wonderful story "Fallen." :) It started off as a gapfiller, then turned into an AU, then turned into a gapfiller again- even I wasn't sure what to make of it- but here goes!**_

The corridors were shadowy, and somehow his spirit could see. He walked- no, floated- no, was pulled- down a narrow hallway, terrified; no notion had he of what this place was, nor how he had come to be here. All he knew was what he could see: the corridor was lined with doors in its stone walls, formed by vertical iron bars, countless and endless as the hall itself. Within each cubicle located behind the strange entrances, was some sort of bright light.

Suddenly, as though his dead ashes of his ears had been ignited to flame, there were voices, mere whispers, but vehement in their quietness. They were elvish- how could he tell?- and they seemed to originate from the uncanny bright orbs. Like unto stars were the lights, he noted, and blinding to look at, though contained within what were apparently their cells. He fixed his psychic gaze ahead on the greyness of the hall: it appeared to have no end, only cubicles with lights inside, going on forever.

At once among the unintelligible whispers could be heard clearly a single voice. "Traitorous wretch," it hissed, coming from his right.

He stopped moving- apparently he did have some control over his mobility- and turned to the voice's source. The light at the cell's entrance was furiously bright, but, eyes drawn to it, he was forced to look past the luminous aura and into the nucleus that radiated it.

And he could make out features- not physical, but the images flashed before his mind's eye so clearly that the light became recognizable. Impossible: the face was Celebrimbor's.

A torrent of thoughts, of fears, of realization, immediately saturated his mind. If Celebrimbor was here, that could mean but one thing: he was dead. How had he not known it? The cells, the eternal corridor, the intense lights (_fëar _of the dead, he now connected): this was Mandos.

But why was he forced to wander? It had always been his understanding that one's soul went directly to a cell- but perhaps it was different for a Maia- especially a Maia _like him. _He mentally shuddered, the light emanating from his own broken spirit dimming even further at the notion that this was part- or only the beginning- of his eternal punishment.

_Such would be the sort of torment conjured up by the Valar, _he thought bitterly, even as he found himself wondering at the cruelty of those who were supposedly so holy and righteous. This punishment was far more merciless than aught even Morgoth himself had inflicted upon his wayward lieutenant.

He willed himself to keep progressing down the hall, but now that their secret had been revealed, it seemed that every cubicle he passed housed a resident who had, at some point throughout the Ages, whether directly or not, been a victim of his crimes. The countless whispers escalated in number as he advanced, swelling to a great rushing, like the chafing of dying beach-side reeds one against the other in an autumn wind- soft in volume yet enormous in quantity.

All told the story of the atrocities he had committed against the Eldar, sent ricocheting throughout his fragile spirit memories of his sins. The lights, once discovered to possess features visible only to the mind, now divulged at a mere glance the countenances they had borne in life, painted eternally with the last expression to cross them- that of every voice's owner was one of agony.

Surrounding him right and left were the faces of those he had slain, their angered but impotent voices lamenting and condemning his deeds against them. It was far too much to bear, on top of the fact that every word was true, on top of the fact that he was even here at all, eternally trapped among the dead. _It was too much to bear_; if running the action could be called, he ran.

His much-quickened pace did little to mend the omnipresence of his victims and their haunting cries, but it at very least gave his mind but one another thing to dwell on- and no time to behold their horrible visages. His wearied spirit could only undergo so much exertion, however, and when it could travel no longer, he simply collapsed.

As he fell the whispers around him could be heard transform from accusations and requiems to sneers and laughter. _I deserve it, _he thought, helpless on the ground and subject for once to others' mercy- or lack thereof- for the first time in Ages.

The laughter, though remaining insubstantial and wraith-like, crescendoed until the vast Halls- and his mind- rang with it. Suddenly, though, it completely died, cut short like the endless lives of those producing it, for a Presence had entered the corridor.

He saw that this, though still taking the form of a luminescent orb, was silver in hue, as opposed to the piercing white of the other _fëar. _It radiated gravity, and he recognized it, from years beyond count in the distant past, as Námo. The Doomsman drew near to him, until their spirits touched. He felt Námo's contact as a gentle hand on his shoulder, guiding him down the silence-stricken corridor in safety from the other souls' prosecution without a word.

An overwhelming peace seemed to fall upon him, assuaging his fears and worries, as Námo directed him gently yet irresistibly to a cell of his own in a wing entirely separate from the elvish ones, including the zone he had wandered into upon his arrival here at Námo's pull.

~oOo~

Golden eyes shot open for the first time in a month, to see around Sauron the same cell that he had safely arrived in from the very moment of his destruction. It was here that Námo had bestowed him as he attempted to heal before being tried for his crimes. Rest was what he needed most, from fears, from pressure, from the gnawing pain of his spiritual scars- but the dream, ever-returning, disturbed his peaceful slumber greatly.

But Námo was faithful, stepping into the shadow-realm of that imagined corridor every time, drawing the Maia's mind back here to his chamber of serenity, from whence his nightmares would inevitably stray back out to the hall, time and time again.

Intermingled with other dreams as strange and harrowing, the recurring one of a twisted arrival in Mandos would be forever emblazoned upon his memory, but he hoped that at very least the Valar would never examine _those _again.

One Vala, though, the one roped in black and now standing calmly in the doorway of his cell, Námo- Námo knew. And Námo had been there.


End file.
